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Back in her early days with SHIELD. I'm thinking of putting this in a series of Natasha fics, alongside Sodium Silence (Natasha & Clint) and Reflections (Natasha & Pepper). *muses, nods* Also? Natasha is awesome. *nods*
Title: Blindsides
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Characters/Pairings: Natasha Romanov, Nick Fury. Natasha & Nick
Summary: The first mission she ran with Fury went to hell in a hand-basket
Wordcount: 658
Warnings/Notes: Violence, spies, trust
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Blindsides
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Characters/Pairings: Natasha Romanov, Nick Fury. Natasha & Nick
Summary: The first mission she ran with Fury went to hell in a hand-basket
Wordcount: 658
Warnings/Notes: Violence, spies, trust
Disclaimer: Not mine
Blindsides
The first mission she ran with Fury went to hell in a hand-basket. She hadn't been at fault. The information had been lacking, they knew it, but they'd had no choice but to go in anyway, or risk losing a number of highly volatile materials that could not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. They'd gone in, mostly blind. They'd gone in expecting disaster.
Crouching for cover behind concrete that was nowhere near thick enough and holding a hand to Fury's hip to stanch the bleeding while he reloaded, she thought they probably hadn't expected this big of one.
"Fuck," the Director spat. Just the once, more in summary than anything else, she thought. She found herself smiling, a quick flicker, and was somewhat shocked at the glint of humour she caught in his face in answer. "What we got, Romanov?"
She shrugged, and finished taping a wad of cloth over the shallow wound (Fury kept a roll of surgical tape in a pocket with his ammo - interesting) before wiping her hands on his pants leg and reloading herself. "Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Good range of coverage. Not many blindspots. They planned well."
Fury grunted, mouth twisting around something sour. "Expected us. Specifics. Fuck. We have a fucking leak."
Natasha didn't twitch. Didn't so much as blink. "Probably," she agreed, wondering idly if there was anyone currently in SHIELD more likely to be a traitor than her. "We were lured. Not definitely. But this was planned in advance."
Fury snarled silently, baring his teeth. It could have been pain, as he shoved himself up along the wall to standing, his hand tightening around his gun in the process. "Yeah," he said, heavily. "And it's going to be fun for somebody, once we get the hell out of this. I can guarantee that."
He looked down at her, still crouched at below him. She ignored him, checking through her guns instead, and readying her bracelets. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. She'd need an edge. Whatever happened later, whatever the fallout of the mission was going to be ... you stayed alive to face it first. Before anything else. You kept yourself alive now, no matter what was coming after.
"Romanov," he said, quietly, and she looked up at him. Her pistols resting lightly on her knees, smears of his blood still on her hands. His coat had draped to hide the wound. There was no sign of weakness in him, his back pressed to the wall, a gun raised in his hand, and his one eye looking calmly, and a little tiredly, down at her.
"Sir?" she asked, light and ready, calm as death. No weakness visible, but he was wounded, both old and new. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Yes. She'd need the edge.
He held her gaze, for a long second. Calm as winter himself, the only anger in the tightness of his hand on his weapon. He watched her, for a beat, and then smiled, hard and glittering, a draped coat over a black, simmering anger.
"Take my blind side," he told her, almost gently, and grinned, a flash of white teeth against the darkness in his face, at the blink she couldn't quite hide in time. "Keep an eye out for anything that might give us our traitor. I'd hate to have to go home empty handed, wouldn't you?"
She stilled. Something tight in her chest, in her gut, as she met his eye, and found nothing but truth there, and calm expectation. Nothing else. Only that. And then:
"Yes, sir," she said, quietly, as she came fluidly to her feet, raising her guns with a small smile to match his gleaming grin. "We wouldn't want to keep the fun all to ourselves."
And as they swung from cover, his gun already barking with casual confidence alongside hers, she wondered why his huff of startled laughter had felt more like approval than any word of praise she'd ever gotten.
The first mission she ran with Fury went to hell in a hand-basket. She hadn't been at fault. The information had been lacking, they knew it, but they'd had no choice but to go in anyway, or risk losing a number of highly volatile materials that could not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. They'd gone in, mostly blind. They'd gone in expecting disaster.
Crouching for cover behind concrete that was nowhere near thick enough and holding a hand to Fury's hip to stanch the bleeding while he reloaded, she thought they probably hadn't expected this big of one.
"Fuck," the Director spat. Just the once, more in summary than anything else, she thought. She found herself smiling, a quick flicker, and was somewhat shocked at the glint of humour she caught in his face in answer. "What we got, Romanov?"
She shrugged, and finished taping a wad of cloth over the shallow wound (Fury kept a roll of surgical tape in a pocket with his ammo - interesting) before wiping her hands on his pants leg and reloading herself. "Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Good range of coverage. Not many blindspots. They planned well."
Fury grunted, mouth twisting around something sour. "Expected us. Specifics. Fuck. We have a fucking leak."
Natasha didn't twitch. Didn't so much as blink. "Probably," she agreed, wondering idly if there was anyone currently in SHIELD more likely to be a traitor than her. "We were lured. Not definitely. But this was planned in advance."
Fury snarled silently, baring his teeth. It could have been pain, as he shoved himself up along the wall to standing, his hand tightening around his gun in the process. "Yeah," he said, heavily. "And it's going to be fun for somebody, once we get the hell out of this. I can guarantee that."
He looked down at her, still crouched at below him. She ignored him, checking through her guns instead, and readying her bracelets. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. She'd need an edge. Whatever happened later, whatever the fallout of the mission was going to be ... you stayed alive to face it first. Before anything else. You kept yourself alive now, no matter what was coming after.
"Romanov," he said, quietly, and she looked up at him. Her pistols resting lightly on her knees, smears of his blood still on her hands. His coat had draped to hide the wound. There was no sign of weakness in him, his back pressed to the wall, a gun raised in his hand, and his one eye looking calmly, and a little tiredly, down at her.
"Sir?" she asked, light and ready, calm as death. No weakness visible, but he was wounded, both old and new. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Yes. She'd need the edge.
He held her gaze, for a long second. Calm as winter himself, the only anger in the tightness of his hand on his weapon. He watched her, for a beat, and then smiled, hard and glittering, a draped coat over a black, simmering anger.
"Take my blind side," he told her, almost gently, and grinned, a flash of white teeth against the darkness in his face, at the blink she couldn't quite hide in time. "Keep an eye out for anything that might give us our traitor. I'd hate to have to go home empty handed, wouldn't you?"
She stilled. Something tight in her chest, in her gut, as she met his eye, and found nothing but truth there, and calm expectation. Nothing else. Only that. And then:
"Yes, sir," she said, quietly, as she came fluidly to her feet, raising her guns with a small smile to match his gleaming grin. "We wouldn't want to keep the fun all to ourselves."
And as they swung from cover, his gun already barking with casual confidence alongside hers, she wondered why his huff of startled laughter had felt more like approval than any word of praise she'd ever gotten.
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